diary / by Edward Mullany


A painting I’d been looking at on a wall in a museum in a city in which I do not live, but to which I’d traveled, by plane, so I could stay in a hotel, and sleep late, and do things I don’t ordinarily do, was said, by the voice of a woman who was speaking through an audio device that had been handed to me, upon my admittance, and that contained descriptions of all the artwork on display, not only in this room, but also in the others, to be this artist’s least favorite, among his own canvases, though it happened to be his most popular and well-known.